So long Cutie-Pie

“I have to force myself to look at you,” I said to my young Physical Therapist, who is incredibly cute.
As a consequence of my knee-change, I had to do physical therapy, first at a nursing-home, then at my house, then at a Physical Therapy after I was cleared to drive.
“I should explain,” I said to a young student shadowing my therapist.
“I am a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations,” I said; “whereby pretty girls like her,” I said, pointing to my therapist, “are entirely off-limits.”
“I am a complete and utter scumbag,” I added; “totally unworthy of female companionship.”
“It’s been that way over 70 years,” I said; “intimidated by pretty girls.”
This goes back to an earlier encounter with my Physical Therapist, who I always refer to as “Cutie-Pie,” although not to her face.
I was explaining why I wasn’t very talkative.
—1) I explained the slight aphasia left from my stroke, and
—2) I told her she was very cute, and I found that intimidating.
She laughed warily, as if to say “Uh-oh. Another lust-crazed geezer hot to hit on me.”
I thereafter explained I was a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Sexual Relations, and thereby convinced I was totally unworthy of female companionship.
“Well I’m not intimidating,” she crowed. “You can talk to me. I like it.”
So now I am “graduated” from outpatient physical therapy.
-When I was discharged from the nursing-home, I commented wryly they were throwing me out — tired of my snide remarks and sick jokes.
-When the in-home physical therapist cleared me to drive, I started crying.
She was a really great person, but I also explained my crying was a stroke-effect. It’s called lability: poor emotional control.
-I thought about how I’d tell Cutie-Pie we were doing more than physical therapy. We were proving Hilda wrong.
I wasn’t gonna say anything, but managed to pull it off.
“I may never see you again for the rest of my entire life,” I said.
“Come visit some time. I’m always here.”

• On December 7th, 2015, my entire left knee was changed. The arthritis was so bad, I was bone-on-bone. I now have a metal knee.
• When I was a child, Hilda Walton was our neighbor, and Sunday-School Superintendent of our church. How she ever managed to produce two sons I’ll never know. Beyond that, her husband smoked. Her maiden name was “Quincy.”